


Lambda

by fanyoursolarsystem



Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Arthur Conan Doyle Canon References, Canon Compliant, Color soulmate, F/F, Femlock, Femslash, Jane Watson - Freeform, LGBTQ Character, LGBTQ Themes, Mutual Pining, POV Sherlock Holmes, Slow Burn, Soulmate AU, fem!lock, genderbent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-31
Updated: 2019-11-10
Packaged: 2021-01-15 23:04:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,256
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21261104
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fanyoursolarsystem/pseuds/fanyoursolarsystem
Summary: Mycroft had waved away the colors soulmate phenomenon as if it’s ridiculous. How do colors even start appearing when you fall in love with your soulmate? she muses. Sherlock can see the logic in that. However, she knows that her colorblindness severely hinders her work. After being discharged from rehab, she meets a woman who is willing to split the rent with her.Sherlock quickly finds that Jane Watson is not as ordinary as she seems. How lovely it is to be proven wrong sometimes.





	1. Black (Absorbs all wavelengths of light)

**Author's Note:**

> I’ve rewritten _Blue_, and I'm much more pleased with the result this time around. I also fixed grammar and repetition throughout. Enjoy!

_Black (Absorbs all wavelengths of light)_

Sherlock realizes the importance of her dysfunction from a very young age. The black, white, and various shades of grey infuriate her. The absence of color is always in the forefront of her mind simply because how important they would be in her life. Being able to see color would be infinitely helpful in her situation, but she finds ways around it. (Assess. Adapt. Overcome.) She gets kicked out of undergrad for tasting and sniffing the mixture in her beaker, unable to determine if the dark shade was navy or forest green like the instructions called for, figuring there had to be another way to tell; but that's not enough to deter her. While the four other senses don't particularly match the sense of _sight,_ she is still entirely capable of building her reputation as a consulting detective. Cases still need to be solved regardless of her colorblindness. She figures out other ways to put her skills to use. Sherlock tries not being jealous, but it was a little maddening. What could _other people_ do with it, really, except enjoy it, while it would be important to _her_?

She asks meticulous questions, driving her assistants away very quickly. “Does the sister have a light blue jacket in her closet?” “Is the niece’s grass artificial or true green?” “What shade of bruises does the boss have on his face?” “Is the cat hair on the child’s jacket pure black, brown, or mixed colors?” No one is particularly helpful. As the Detective Inspector, and a competent one at that, Lestrade is quick to be helpful. However, she isn’t as observant as Sherlock wanted, as Sherlock needed. If she was a philosopher rather than a scientist she would probably conjecture on whether or not colors between people differ. Can she really trust anyone's observation? What if Lestrade’s "Red" is different than hers would be? Is grass truly green after all? Without anything to compare her colorblindness to the line of thinking isn't significant enough to spend her time on.

Frustratingly, cases slip through her fingertips because of this. While she can sometimes tell colors apart by the varying degree of grey, she can’t always get the right information that she needs in the moment. It’s frustrating to admit it but she accepts it, because there's nothing she can do about it. She can’t solve everything, but she still _has to try_ all the same. 

Everything leads to an obvious conclusion: Occam's Razor. She’s not the easiest person to know. Too overwhelming to fall in love with. Too difficult for someone to willingly put up with her for an extended period of time. This is who she is. The information swimming in her head, (the calm only coming with her dosages,) her lack of sleep, and lack of desire for a normal life enough to run off the few lovers she has ever had. 

This is also clear to her after she gets out of rehab this most recent time. 

“It is obvious to me,” her sister pointedly tells her over breakfast, “that you are no longer in the danger zone of your crisis.” She takes a sip of coffee, not even looking up from the politics section of the newspaper. “Truly, do you not miss having your own quarters?”

And she does, yes. She looks at Mycroft over her cold eggs, listening Mycroft sniff (whenever she reads something she doesn’t particularly likes,) taking in her strong perfume (Vintage. Expensive. Classic, but Mycroft rarely strays from her favorites), observing her face and her neck a minute different shade of light grey (New makeup. Assistant didn’t color match well. Her phone's been buzzing with applications from her own network near the knife block in the kitchen.) Sherlock starts to say something before closing her thin lips together and wondering if she had any money left over from her overdose. And although she does, thankfully, it’s not enough. Not to stand on her own two feet. And, most importantly, forgetting all of this, what was it that the substance abuse therapists were talking about after her relapse? Having a support system? 

Mycroft took the last sip of her coffee, and smiled at Sherlock (Tiredly. She’s ready for this conversation to be over with.) “Think it over.” 

There wasn’t much to think of. The matter was pretty much settled as soon as Mycroft decided.

There are other places to find support. She finds friendship and intimacy in the oddest places. Lestrade willingly offers to let her sleep on her couch (her cologne and sweat have permeated the cushions. She was sleeping on it before her wife had moved out for the second time,) the second floor cold and quiet (Her wife took their youngest daughter with her.) Sherlock doesn’t mention it when Lestrade forgets herself, putting three plates on the dinner table. Sherlock amuses her with her deductions, and Lestrade laughs for the first time in weeks. 

She finds it in her homeless network smiling at her, waiting for their next assignment. Their quick feet, imagination, and near invisibility have proven time and time again to be much more valuable to her than the well known faces of the DI and her team. Sherlock, while shadowed in mystery, (she never wanted the acclaim, only the joy in figuring out a tough puzzle set before her), still caught attention. Being a tall, frightful looking women with a broken nose will do that.

She finds it in the kind open face of Mr. Hudson (divorced, bad hip (twice fixed,) nearly blind) who offers her a flat if she could find a roommate to cover the full price. And, hey. It was a step towards freedom at least. 

She finds it, too, in the kind face of Dr. Stamford. On her usually sarcastic face, thin lips twisting up in a smirk when she sees Sherlock pass by her to the laboratory, waving. But worry is plain on her face. Sherlock has been gone for three months, and while she had been worried about her experiment in the lab (ruined, ran on too long without supervision), she had never really paid much mind to those she would see on the way to the laboratory. Sherlock didn't think her absence would be noticed, but she can still tell by the widened eyes on Dr. Stamford’s face that something strange has happened-- she was _missed_.

That’s how Sherlock finds herself lamenting to Michaela that she needs a roommate to split the rent. She teasingly abuses herself about how difficult it'd be to find someone amiable. Who knew how long that would take, she said as she wiped her fingerprints off a vial. Michaela had laughed at that.

They catch her putting a bandage on her thin fingers in the laboratory. She was so close to discovery-- the vial of blood within arm reach, waiting for her to try her next attempt. The door dragging against the tile floor breaks her concentration. She looks up to see Michaela rolling through the automatic door, giving her a wide smile. She turns her wheelchair to the side to gesture towards her friend. 

She’s ordinary. Approximately forty year old African American woman, her natural (4C) hair pulled back tightly (perfectly within Army new 2017 regulations,) her gaze steady, her body language defensive (crossed arms, with an unnaturally stiff stance,) but nervous also (her fingers fidgeting, soothing her arm, betraying herself.) Sherlock catches her start at the riding crop on the table next to her before looking at Michaela with wide eyes. It begins again, Sherlock thinks, as she got to her feet.

“Jane Watson,” she says simply after Sherlock’s introduction. Her grip is weak (left hand, weak arm, weak shoulder. Shot in Afghanistan during the war? Discharged. Needs a person to split the rent with. Doesn’t have much— money, family, possessions. In a bit of a desperate position.) Still, Sherlock wants her to be amiable. She's anxious for her to be so.

“You’ve been in Afghanistan, I presume?”

Jane starts, her face softening as she turns towards Stamford. “Did you tell her—”

“Nope.” Michaela said with a smile. She performs a cross body arm swing to stretch her sore muscles. “Left my phone in the lab.”

“Then how…?”

“I observed it.” 

“You _what?_”

But she’s not ordinary, Sherlock soon finds. 

How lovely it is to be proven wrong sometimes.


	2. Brown (Wavelength: approx. 600nm)

_Brown (Wavelength: approx. 600nm) _

Sherlock thankfully wins her over soon enough. Granted 221B is a nice apartment, but it’s also overwhelmingly lovely for the simple fact that she is no longer living with _Mycroft,_ who demands she stop playing the absurd hours in the morning. 

While Jane barely speaks to her for the first six weeks they were living together, Sherlock can tell she’s watching her closely. True to her word, Jane doesn’t mind Sherlock’s violin playing. Sherlock’s eccentric hours don’t particularly bother her either because Jane would still be up more often than not, drawing something, curled up on her chair yawning but unable to sleep. She can only get a little rest at a time, unable to really hold anything of substance down (Nightmares. Common with PTSD.) She still tries, though. There’s something important in that distinction. 

In turn, she tries to discover more about her new roommate. She glances over Jane’s shoulder as she’s sitting in her chair in the living room. She doesn’t mind particularly. The only concern is that Jane is in direct view of where Sherlock most wanted to play her violin. Having an audience didn’t bother her surprisingly. Jane didn’t even flinch when she would repeat passages in different tempos as she untangled pieces of information in her head. But when Jane jerked her head up at the sudden silence, tilting her head curiously, wordlessly asking why Sherlock stopped, Sherlock realized she was _missed._ That her presence wasn't just something in the background, something irritating and difficult to put with; rather, her violin was becoming part of Jane's comfort within 221B. It was a nice change that Sherlock was sure she would never relay. But nice all the same.

There were light marks on Jane's paper tonight. Her spiraled sketchbook is opened to a new page in the middle (the pages tucked behind are wrinkled, she has been doing this since before she moved in.) Although her drawings were all light grey to her, Sherlock could tell before checking the extremely sharpened pencil’s side that it was non-photoblue. (Could she see colors then? (If so, where was her beloved?) Or was simply taught to use this medium for her preliminary sketches?) It was obvious to her that this wasn’t just an idle hobby, but a skill she went to school for (Medical illustrator. Calluses on her fingers, practiced hand loosely holding her pencil, drawing with her entire arm rather than her wrist. Pale grey smudges on the side of her palm.) She was drawing a more detailed version of the Anterior view of a skull (older African American female, but with otherwise generic features.) Smaller, looser sketches were scattered along the top of the page near the spiral edge (Practice. She wanted to get it just right. Additional income to her small pension, assuaging her guilt for using the majority of it to bet on horses.) 

She was talented, too, Sherlock had to admit. The front teeth were crooked though, but instead of being irritated, there was something rather charming in that feature that Sherlock couldn’t quite place. She looked up to see her random assortment of biology books in her bookcases and smiled. Her drawing showed imperfections, as if the skull belonged to an actual human rather than an idealized version. She admired that. Imperfections were more interesting.

“You got the curve of the Zygomatic bone perfectly.”

Jane threw the sketchbook up in the air in surprise, nearly smacking Sherlock in the face. 

They both had their own little eccentricities. While Sherlock could tell plain on Jane’s face that she was curious about the various visitors that would come in inquiring about her, the question always hesitated and stayed on her lips. Sherlock was actually pleased one morning when Jane called some of her published research in the paper twaddle, not realizing the author was sitting in front of her. The openness was somewhat endearing. 

Jane was also incredibly accommodating; always taking her notebook, her pencil, and her eraser upstairs to her room. She took a quick look at Lestrade when she gathered her things on the living room table. 

Lestrade smiled a little too widely during their first meeting, nodding as she took off her hat in the heated apartment. “Jane, I presume?”

Jane started but smiled. She had an easiness about her, a natural friendliness that Sherlock could never hope to mimic. Her sturdy footsteps quickly made their way up the stairs before she closed the door behind her. 

Lestrade started saying something, but Sherlock cuts her off. “Is this about Lauriston Gardens?” 

Sherlock can't help but smile when it is. She enters the dark apartment laughing. Solving a case is always exhilarating, but solving a cold one was almost too big for her small body to contain. She turns and smiles at Lestrade, not telling her exactly how she figured it out, deciding to rely on her old trick to get out of any explanation: If I explain it, you won’t think I’m as marvelous as you suppose after all, and really, who benefits from that?

She’s so happy and actually almost hungry enough to eat whatever Mr. Hudson left behind in the container outside her door that she’s caught off guard when it happens. One moment she is laughing at Lestrade, her prosthetic nose itching her like crazy, when a strong arm suddenly wraps around her neck. Her body is quickly brought down onto the carpeted floor and she's unable to find something to completely brace her fall in the dark. While it’s entirely embarrassing, she realizes what is happening soon enough.

“Did you really think you could walk in? Just stop on by? Because you broke into the wrong apartment,” Jane told her, pressing her into the carpet. Sherlock’s short curly wig slides off a little, but she can’t help but smile. Jane’s stocky leg pins her down, her strong hands holding Sherlock’s thin ones behind her back.

“Tough luck. I was in the Army, _fucker._”

Sherlock wants to laugh. Lestrade pulls Jane off of her, and she lets out the sound bubbling in her throat liked she’s stunned at Jane’s strength. Light floods the living room, and Sherlock sees Jane’s eyes widen at her crumpled on the floor. Sherlock jumps to her feet, her hands out in front of her defensively, a little weaker than she would ever want to appear. But she can't help but to smile.

Jane’s face crumbles, which is ridiculous really, because what she just did was amazing. Truly amazing. There is something light in Sherlock’s chest, and she can’t help but laugh as she tries to get the words out.

“I surrender!” is all she can really think to say at first, a little out of breath, out of practice. “It’s me!”

“Sherlock, I could have hurt you.” Jane tells her, frightened. She takes Sherlock's hands in hers to steady her weak legs when a flick of something catches Sherlock off guard, her voice caught in her throat. Mycroft had waved away the whole soulmate thing as if it’s ridiculous. She can see the logic in that. But when Jane raises her gaze to look Sherlock directly in the eyes, titling her head curiously, wordlessly asking Sherlock if she’s alright, all Sherlock can do is stare. 

The dark brown of Jane’s skin. The darker shades of brown in her 4C hair, the shades of grey from aging and stress standing out almost brilliantly, framing her face. Jane’s wide light brown eyes are so open, so warm, and entirely focused on her. Sherlock reaches out, flexing her bandaged fingers until they are resting lightly on Jane’s wide shoulders. Soft, brown hair brushed against her knuckles. Jane's lips quirk unhappily before she places two fingers above Sherlock's left Carotid artery, turning her wrist towards her so she can count her pulse with her watch. (Those practiced fingers! Such bedside manners! The genuine concern for her safety!) 

The color of her own paler grey skin contrasting against Jane's. The color of Lestrade’s hair before grey took over. The color of the wooden swings of her childhood home. The warm brown of her violin. Music, warmth, and childhood— passion and nostalgia all folded into one color.

And _Jane_.

Sherlock takes in as much information as she can, happily drowning in it. It’s more intimate than she could have ever imagined.

It quickly becomes overwhelming, though. “You disarmed me, Jane. Impressive!” She backs away when the contact is a little too much. A little giddy, Sherlock bounces on the heels of her feet. She turns to Lestrade, and sees the brown wooden buttons her ex has sewed onto her clothes, the clean folds of her khakis, the worrying wrinkles around her eyes.

“I obviously need to start training again!” she mutters excitedly to no one in particular.

As she made her way towards her bedroom she notices the differing tones of the hard wood floors beneath her feet (Mahogany, Sepia, Burnt Sienna, Hazel, Beige.) She reaches the mirror, and pulls the prosthetic off of her nose, yanking the mess of her wig which, as it turns out, does not match her skin tone (thank you very much, Lestrade.) Her anatomy books laying on her desk are a weathered brown (Aged and worn from water damage and disuse.) The out of place brown leaves on the trees outside her window, and the pinecones and acorns laying on the dying Earth delighted her (Fall! Mute and sobering.) The dirt caked on her shoes from her long walks around the city staining the carpet (It’ll never come out. She doesn’t particularly care.) Her secret stash of Cocaine hidden in her warn brown slipper (How has no one noticed it? It’s so out of place.) She can list about twenty things that she can now use for cases when Jane’s sturdy footsteps creak on the worn floorboards outside her door. 

“What were you _thinking?_” Jane starts, leaning a little pass the doorframe, cautious not to intrude. Kind Jane, but utterly ridiculous. “And why are you dressed like that?”

Did she know yet? Did she see? Sherlock has often wondered if the colors would appearing to both parties simultaneously. How this all worked didn't particularly make sense to her. Did the colors come on naturally? There was a rather small range of visible light the human eye could interpret, but she was still rather surprised to find that they all didn’t appear at once. 

Did Jane know yet? Did she see? (No. Jane was staring at her with wide eyes. Not in a stunned way, taking in the amount of information that Sherlock is. Rather, she was watching her in concern, checking to see if Sherlock is actually hurt.) So no. She must not. Past behavior points to that conclusion. She had witnessed the process of discovery before. Clients meeting for the first time when Sherlock realized their two strange mysteries were connected. Widened eyes, paused conversation. People would often look at one another in such a way that an outsider could just _know_. (So many ridiculously overblown romantic movies pop into her head. That’s not real life. That’s not how real life works. Why hasn't she deleted those plots from her head yet? Because she agreed to watch them with Lestrade to improve her mood?) Was it a physical thing? A draw that appears, a switch that happens in your brain? And it has always frustrated her because she doesn’t know. She can’t particularly logic her way through the process. It was rather frightening, but truly exhilarating at the same time now that she is experiencing it herself.

She has played this game with Lestrade before. Placing her strengths and weaknesses on the table, pointing to different personality traits that would complement and challenge her. The facts as they lay before her were as follows: They have been living together for six weeks now and Jane never particularly stood out to her before. In a bit of a shock, Sherlock realizes she has completely misunderstood her. (There’s always something.) Jane is quick to action, reliable, and strong. She knows what she wants, and goes after it with enthusiasm. She has a background in the medical field and thrived in it, only giving up her place in the army when she had a close call. Intelligent, although not at her level. Amiable. Loyal. Kind.

Jane took a hesitant step inside her room, careful to not step on any of discarded photographs of an old crime scene. She’s still waiting for an answer, not likely to be brushed off with a quick one. (Good, solid Jane!)

Sherlock came up with a plan quickly, realizing if they were both connected that Jane just had to be amazed. Easy enough. She didn’t like exposing her “trick” as Lestrade calls it, because of pride, but this could be an easy exception.

Sherlock walks closer to her, admiring the dark brown on her eyes. There was something warm about the color that made her insides ache. How could she have been so wrong about her? Six weeks has passed and she never even really talked to her about anything important or no. There was so much time to make up for. Has she ever been so pleased in her life? 

“Would you like to know what I did tonight?” She asked wickedly.

A pause, a glimmer of a smile on Jane’s lips.

It was all the encouragement she needed.


	3. Blue (Wavelength: approx. 440-485nm)

_Blue (Wavelength: approx. 440-485nm)_

Jane thinks she’s _brilliant._ Specifically, Jane thinks her talents are _wonderful._

It’s such a small statement, and yet it stands out in Sherlock’s mind. Jane’s surprise and admiration is plain on her face, and Sherlock blushes despite herself. Often, she was met with anger or dismissal. People have speculated that she was making assumptions out of thin air. Sexist men accused her of being nosy, of interviewing others before hand and presented this prior knowledge in such a way to appear more intelligent than she actually is. It's the old psychic trick, a man told her once with a smirk. A simple cold reading. He quickly left her alone when she threatened him for cat-fishing his own step daughter. Still, the accusations sting a little. 

Sherlock tries to brush it off as commonplace, but she’s honestly incredibly touched. 

“Would you like to hear some of my other cases?”

Jane was enthralled. While intelligent, she's not particularly observant. No, Sherlock told her mischievously, the man’s cane was not a gift provided by his colleagues for his years of medical practice. However, by providing information that wasn’t true, Jane left space for Sherlock to figure out what was right. 

“And how do you know about a dog?” Jane asked before lowering herself onto the couch . 

“Because I see him standing outside our door.” Jane let out a small noise in acknowledgement, getting up to her feet to leave the room in their well rehearsed routine when Sherlock reached out to touch her hand. “No, stay. He’s been the Army himself, and you might be helpful to me.”

It worked. Jane provided to be infinitely helpful. A more interpersonal view of the situation is valuable to her. No, she found out quickly after, Jane could not see colors, but she had an amiable personality that set her clients at ease. Instead of musing to herself on the couch, lost to all time and needs of her body, Jane provided a living being to talk things through. She quickly became a friend, and a wonderful one at that. Jane was happy to join her, and Sherlock quickly found she would rather not leave her behind. 

They were several cases deep into their partnership now, Jane’s presence becoming more comforting than distracting. Sherlock absentmindedly reaches for Jane’s hand in the dark alleyway for reassurance several streets away from 221B during the winter. She could hear Jane’s heavy breathing slow with their rest, puffs of frozen condensation creeping into her periphery. She turned to tell Jane the rest of her plan, but was distracted by the way Jane’s eyes were bright with exercise and something else. 

“What is it?” Sherlock hissed. She didn’t want to miss the men just in case they decided to take a different route than the one she predicted. They had to be prepared.

Jane just shook her head, her smile fading. She tilted her head to the side, eyeing her and only her. “It’s... it’s nothing.”

The two men ran by them then, laughing at their supposed escape. Sherlock was too distracted by the retreating figures to probe any further.

Jane Watson didn’t live with Sherlock Holmes for nothing. Sherlock took delight in Jane interjecting how she knew Violet Smith rode a bicycle when she kicked up her feet to cross her legs, the pedal’s friction causing light scruff marks to form on the sides of her soles. Sherlock didn’t bother hiding her smile. While her deductions were often irrelevant, the mere fact that Jane was learning from her example was exhilarating.

Sherlock muttered something noncommittal as she washed her hands in the kitchen as Jane was humming disapprovingly at the way she sketched the process of pulmonary circulation on the couch. Sometimes, Sherlock had to admit, the sound of Jane’s voice wasn’t calming to her. Especially when it distracted her from the experiments she had set up on their newly clean kitchen counter. Jane didn’t mean to distract her, though. That was the primary reason why she didn’t want to run her experiment at Stamford’s laboratory. The silver lining in all of this is that she rather liked Jane's steady presence in the room. She liked the idea that if she looked up towards the window, Jane would be there sitting with her legs tucked under her on the couch as she tapped the edge of her notebook with a half spent eraser, forgetting to make the right lung wider, nor the left lung longer.

The experiment was going well this time, which made Sherlock more open to replying to Jane on occasion. The test tubes are behaving. Jane isn’t complaining about the cold in the apartment needed for the litmus test— deciding to wear more clothing than otherwise necessary for Spring. Sherlock’s tongue was drying her lips as she concentrated on drawing distilled water into the pipette. If the solution turned her test strip brown, she was wrong; if it turns something else, she's finally onto something.

Lestrade is coming up the stairs to ruin their peace, though. She tries to be quiet, holding her crumpled hat in her hands. Her footsteps are light, and even though her back is towards the door, Sherlock gives a weak welcome, telling Lestrade not to mind the temperature, wanting to distract Lestrade from heading towards Jane to ask her for a drink.

“How did you know it’s me?” Lestrade said, laughing. She leans her hip against the back of Jane’s favorite chair and turns to smile as Jane places the pencil behind her ear. “I swear she has eyes on the back of her head sometimes.”

“Nah. She saw you enter with her shined teapot.”

Oh, Jane. Observant Jane. Sherlock laughed before putting some of the solution onto the test tube. Despite knowing Sherlock for years now, Lestrade continued to see rather than observe. She appreciated Jane's skills enough that it almost distracted her from the result. Blue. Vibrant, and so, so different. She starts, looking over her shoulder to see Jane smiling at her, waiting to see if she’s correct in her deduction. She twirls on the counter stood, observing Lestrade’s pale blue knit hat in her hand (Hand knitted. A Christmas gift from her oldest daughter. Reconciliation. Happiness abound.) Lestrade is watching Jane closely, the possibility of a date dying on her lips.

“Exactly so,” she says, her pipette and test tube litmus strip still in her gloved fingers. Jane beams before yanking her blue ragged flannel blanket off the floor to wrap around her shoulders. It’s the color of the punk woman’s hair who was angrily defending herself when the police were leveling accusations against her that Sherlock never believed to begin with. The color of Mycroft’s curious but tired eyes she inherited from their father. The coat of Victoria Trevor’s dog that bit Sherlock’s ankle years and years ago.

She has never been happier in her life.

She discovers that the sky changes tints of blue depending on the time of day. She understands why her mother loves spending time outside now, either bird watching or observing the deep blues of dusk and the light hues of early dawn. She sees it in the happiness of her client’s eyes when Sherlock tells her that she won’t report her whereabouts to her abusive ex. She sees in in the confused eyes of the trans man who doesn’t quite understand why one of his shoes has suddenly gone missing after moving into his new home. She sees it in the bright and unmistakable dress the little girl is wearing in her Amber Alert poster on the news. She sees it the pool's chlorinated water before she dives in the deep end, getting her rush of endorphins in a less destructive way.

She sees it in small things, too. The use of color weren’t just for her cases. The smallest things were making her smile now; It was like discovering life anew.

The blueberries Jane puts on her French toast before pressuring Sherlock to eat at least half of her plate. She sees it, too, heartbreakingly, in Jane’s dress shirt when Mary stops by, her light blue eyes crinkling at her. Jane throws off her ragged blue flannel blanket when Mary’s softly knocks on the doorframe of their living room. It’s crinkled from where Jane has slept under it after another successful adventure. Jane’s blue nail polish peak out from underneath her oversized peacoat as she waves goodbye. Sherlock borrows it later, throwing it on before heading towards Michaela's laboratory under the pretense that their laundry was mixed in together when Jane protested. 

Jane was a conductor of light, even if often wrong. Sherlock’s happier than she had ever been, quite content with her life at the moment, she thinks, as she collapses on the couch. Jane follows, giggling into her hands, collapsing in her favorite chair as Sherlock is trying to catch her breath.

Sherlock sees it in Jane’s sketching pencil that she had worn down to a stub. Non-photoblue pencils were scattered across the flat now. One stabs Sherlock’s back as she laid down on the couch to think over a case, the small intrusion making her laugh. Jane was now using her talents more towards planning and carrying out on writing and illustrating their adventures. The Stangerson’s murder was drafted into a publishable graphic novel with the strange title _A Study in Scarlet._ The illustration of _Rache_ carved into the wall is a shade of grey in her mind’s eye and nothing more. Sherlock never thought her cases particularly publishable, but she accepts the quick popularity when more marginalized women and men start asking for her help. She likes that, her help more valuable to those who truly need her expertise than those who would flash their money around as if it’s impressive. Sherlock’s no heroine, she wants to say when Lestrade teases her for not knowing details about their solar system. It’s only when Sherlock takes to preening over Jane’s shoulder to correct her on minor details does she realize Jane’s phone hadn’t rang all morning. Mary’s calls always pulled Jane away before, leading to a distraction that Sherlock didn’t particularly need nor desire. The realization catches in her throat.

The colors Jane uses don’t particularly make sense together but Sherlock didn’t understand color theory enough to know. After a while, Jane decides to let small shades of blue behind amongst the black and white. She accidentally smeared a bit of the color with her finger when Jane wasn’t looking. She reasoned with herself that she just wanted physical proof, but she spent too long marveling at how the blue stained her burned fingertips to justify it.

It’s only when she catches Jane holding Senator Morcar’s blue carbuncle up towards the light is Sherlock confident enough to breach the topic. Jane let out a little breath as if she doesn’t believe what she’s seeing.

“It’s a crazy thing, isn’t it?” Sherlock asks, sitting down on the couch’s arm in front of Jane’s vantage point near the window. “The way it shines? The way it glimmers?” 

After a long moment, Jane turns towards her. They let Mr. Hudson vacuum underneath them roar on, the sound muffled a little by the floor. They're so close Sherlock can smell Jane's lemon laundry detergent.

Jane opens her mouth to speak, but shakes her head, softly laughing at herself. “Do you think Horner is innocent?” She asks, raising her arm higher so that the sunlight shines right through the gaudy jewel into their flat. She meets Jane’s eyes in the window.

The lit cigarette burns between her lips as she watches Jane meticulously sharpen her pencil after dinner, boredom beginning to creep up her spine. She watches as Jane sketches up the first draft of the Baskerville case, failing to make the Hound appear anything close to Henrietta Baskerville’s worst nightmare. 

Everything points in one direction, Sherlock thinks as Jane frowns at the sharp point of her pencil when it snaps at the base. She isn’t the only one.


	4. Yellow (Wavelength: approx. 565-590nm)

_Yellow (Wavelength: approx. 565-590nm)_

Jane’s illustrations of their cases are becoming wildly popular. More people are finding the two of them for their services that way. Most importantly to her, more marginalized people are finding her, reaching out when police let them fall through their fingers. It’s understandable for them to be wary of the police, to be wary of her. But she has to try. Try to gain their trust, to untangle the strings until what remains is the truth, to help them forward. She has to try all the same.

She’s not always right, though. Not exactly. She often finds herself throwing too much into something, overextending herself, letting herself fly, blinded by her own intelligence. The name of the street sticks to her, the pain of misunderstanding hitting her like a knife. Jane bumps her hip against hers and Sherlock finds herself leaning into the touch. She curls her arm around the crook of Jane’s elbow then, letting it rest there. She's too tired to care to move it.

“Jane,” she starts softly. There are so many things that have gone wrong that day. The distraction of their early morning walk, the summer heat hitting her skin wonderfully. She wanted a case but the look on Jane’s brown skin when it hit the sunlight was almost enough for her to forget herself. She didn’t mind being pulled away for a mystery, of course, but she found herself wanting to stay outside as well, rediscovering Spring after the muteness of winter. There was a lot to discover, the anticipation exciting, but now the mood was somber. Her shorts were bothering her, her hair a scraggly bun tied against the nape of her neck. She wants something but she’s not sure what, exactly. She wants to be prepared next time. She wants to not disappoint people in the future. She wants a lot of things, but when Jane pats her hand, turning to look up at Sherlock, she knows what she wants most in that moment is for Jane to remember that Sherlock is just human, to not be disappointed in that fact.

The clients who come to see her, the reviewers on the graphic novel and short comics, are wondering at her ability, but there are also many who are quick to jump on the conclusion that she’s lying, that’s she’s faking it until she somehow stumbles on the right path. She’s either brilliant, or a fraud. Too overwhelming or too strange. The mad genius, or the strange misanthropist that knows how bruises form after death but doesn’t know the third planet in their solar system. It doesn’t particularly bother her much. Jane knows who she really is. Lestrade knows. Her clients know. But there’s always a little hitch. 

Because she’s not this perfect person with a strange skillset. She gets melancholy, unable to move from the couch. She refuses to eat for days and is angry at her body for how hungry and dizzy she is after reaching the conclusion she was looking for. She likes classical music enough to create her own melodies. She gets her enjoyment for the art from her Great Aunt Vernet, even though she doesn't care more modern pieces. She takes Jane to the theatre as much as she can, enjoying the emotions on Jane’s face almost as much as the music from the stage. The look in Jane's eyes as she catches Sherlock looking at her, nervous yet ready.

No, she doesn’t know the solar system, but she can understand the beauty in the constellations. For all of Jane’s assumptions in the beginning of _A Study in Scarlet,_ she already knows she wants to retire to a small cottage with a garden and bees, her fingertips delighting at the idea of harvesting honey from her own hives, the scent of the garden as she plucks weeds, the colors of the flowers overwhelming her senses in her old age. The idea that Jane would have her own bee suit delights her to no end. She’s a lot of things that people think she’s not. And it’s ok for others to view her a certain way. Those who matter know. Those who come to her, and work with her know, but it all boils down to nothing if Jane starts to see her as more perfect than human, more prone to brilliance than even deigning to make a mistake. What’s the point of having a soulmate if they don’t actually see you as you truly are?

“Jane,” she stars again. They stop at the edge of a park, and Sherlock takes in the various shapes of leaves and growths sprouting up from the trees, the shine of the grass allows her to tell how many people have walked through the park this morning. Kids are running around with flower crowns on their heads, and for a small moment, Sherlock wants that freedom from expectation. She absentmindedly picks at the frays on Jane's long sleeve, the random little tuffs of the blue cuff bothering her to no end. “If it should ever strike you that I am getting a little overconfident in my powers, or giving less pains to a case than it deserves, kindly whisper _Norbury_ in my ear,” Despite herself she sniffs. There’s movement in her periphery, and Sherlock turns to look down at her arm around Jane’s. “I shall be infinitely obliged to you.”

There’s something for being vulnerable. Lestrade teases her often but still continues to be amazed when she refuses to observe the scene around her. Her uninvolved parents expecting perfection from her sister and her over anything else. She had to build this image of being competent but when it doesn’t work out in her favor she falls apart, unravelling at the seams. She hides the disappointment within herself. What is she without her work? And what is her work if no one trusts her abilities to solve their mysteries?

Jane turns then, taking in Sherlock as a whole. She avoids Jane’s brown eyes shining a brilliant light brown and turns back towards the kids, watching as they disappear from sight, climbing tress without a sense for danger, screaming in delight when their mates find them. Jane places her hand on Sherlock’s shoulder and it’s more calming than it deserves to be. Sherlock closes her eyes and Jane just pulls her closer until their chests are resting up against one another. The top of Jane’s head doesn't even reach Sherlock’s shoulder. Sherlock doesn’t want to cry. She solved the case after all, just created a more involved solution than it particularly deserved. But something is welling up inside of her threatening to come out, and Jane would kill her if she sought after her usual mode of self medication. Sherlock just knew she would.

“You can trust me,” Jane whispers, and Sherlock can feel her breath on her throat. She’s not crying, she’s definitely not, but there’s something warm in her chest. She doesn’t like being vulnerable, but Jane makes it easier. It’s hard not to be when your roommate becomes your best friend, when you share a life together, when you share a small living area, when you share colors, even if neither of them are brave enough to talk about it yet.

Sherlock hums, content in the moment. Realizations hit her in a quick succession: Jane likes the idea that she’s human, that she’s flawed. She never had to ask Jane to draw her more realistically after the awkwardness of their first adventure together became a regular thing rather than an one off. Her crooked nose that wasn’t set correctly after she was forced into rehab for the first time kept it’s gnarly shape; the number of bandages all over her fingers from burning them on Bunsen burners, cutting them with scalpels, steeping them into boiling water once when she was distracted, was a constant to her portrayal as it is to her in real life; the bags under her eyes painting her as more human than an automaton that can whether anything for the hunt. 

Her favorite panel of them is a full page illustration of Sherlock leading Jane through New York for some air, taking time for the two of them without any distractions just because they could. That’s intimacy, Sherlock thinks. Jane doesn’t want to be near her because she’s brilliant, because Jane thinks she’s perfect. Jane just likes _her,_ for all her eccentricities than despite of them.

She never had to tell Jane that she’s human. It’s hard not for the brilliance to wear off, Sherlock admits a little bitterly, after being in her presence for an extended period of time. She knows her own flaws well enough for that. Jane understood when she started randomly playing violin at three in the morning. Jane understood when Sherlock walked into the living room with blood on her clothes and a wide smile on her face after a successful experiment. Jane understood when she wouldn’t eat for days at a time and it took Jane many, many days of trial and error to land on something that Sherlock will willingly eat, filing that information for later when melancholy would inevitably hit again. Jane understood when she would see Sherlock laying on the couch in the same position for three days straight. Jane understands her in ways she wasn’t expecting. And it’s hard, and it’s new. 

It feels like her nerve endings are all laid bare at the surface now. But she’s right. Sherlock can trust her. She actually can.

She’s not crying but when she opens her eyes her vision is blurry. She turns, rubbing her cheek against Jane’s temple and starts to laugh softly when she looks out over her shoulder. The flowers on the children’s heads are yellow. They’re just dandelions. They're just weeds, but Sherlock knows that even for a weed, bees need them for an early source of nectar and pollen. The children don’t care about that primary purposes outside of making wishes, the fun of blowing the seeds with their parachute ending in laughter before they pluck another one to test their luck. Her skin is gold with a warm undertone, shining a little from the sweat of the night. She leans into Jane a little, just taking in the moment. Spring really is beautiful, she thinks off handedly, as Jane squeezes her waist. 

The golden pair of glasses that were so well loved they had been delicately repaired to uphold the antique aesthetic left behind in the rush of escaping a murder scene. The scales of a swamp adder ready to pounce when Jane and her rushed into a room that wasn’t meant for them. The two ears preserved in salt delivered to Susan Cushing in a bright yellow box too hard to ignore. The overwhelming number of yellow rain coats she found herself chasing after during the early spring. Jane pouring in too much honey into her tea, just the way she likes it. The way Jane’s skin brightens with the longer hours. Yellow Bellied Sapsuckers are drilling into the closest oak tree, Eastern Tiger Swallowtails are landing on flowers, the longer daylight hours granting her more vitamin D than her body has probably had the whole of winter. Sherlock is happier than she had been in the longest time. 

But there’s something else, too. Green. Vibrant Green. Yellow mixed with blue, a shock to the system. The same color as the streaks on the murder victim’s shoes in last week’s crime scene. The color of grass, wet with dew, soaking her socks in the courtyard of the rehab center. The color of her mother’s sharp eyes. The pale green shoots budding from out of the elm trees that were standing tall behind Jane. 

It’s fitting, Sherlock thinks, as she relaxes into Jane’s arms. She allows herself this moment. There’s no awkwardness, no hesitation. Jane just holds her until Sherlock lets go, their body heat making Sherlock feel alive, dopamine flooding her system. Jane smiles and tucks Sherlock’s arm around her elbow, leading her back to 221B. Jane takes Sherlock’s cold hand in hers as the sky darkens from yellow to deep blue.


	5. Red (Wavelength: approx. 625-740nm)

_Red (Wavelength: approx. 625- 740nm)_

Sherlock didn’t really understand what Jane was chastising her for. It’s not like she took the entire sample Lestrade and her co. found at the crime scene. Even she, she protested softly, understood the importance of not doing so. Jane sputtered, telling her that wasn’t the point. 

“Which is?”

“That you took a sample to our home in order to recreate a _crime scene._”

Hm. She takes a sip of her sparkling water, the carbonation settling her nervous stomach weak with no food. “If you would rather sit out the experiment, like a reasonable person I grant you, I am more than willing to precede on my own.”

Jane scrunched her face up, folding her arms across the chest. After a long moment she turned to open the windows in their living room as wide as they would go. The crisp Fall breeze sets their curtains dancing.

Sherlock couldn’t help but to smile. “That’s my dear Jane.”

There were probably a better way to collect the soot from the crime scene. The bulky yellow envelope weighed down her hand. The soft grey soot staining her fingertips stood out like a dagger. Everything else in her line of sight could be accounted for, but the soft powder in her hands was brown mixed with something else. Jane muttered something that sounded dangerously close to _“Seriously?”_ but she didn’t push it further.

It's the same space heater model as the one from the crime scene. Jane didn't ask how Sherlock was able to purchase one so quickly, and she didn't offer any answers. It took a little tinkering from the both of them to get it to work. The heat started building until the coils burned a mixture of yellow and something else. Completely safe, Jane told her, nodding. Sherlock tucked her cigarette behind her ear before pulling a match from her pocket. The ignition of the reactivity of phosphorus with the potassium chlorate in the match head creates a crack in the silent room. That was always her favorite part. The flame burns in Jane's eyes. She was holding her breath, Sherlock realized. Petrified and anxious to see how this will turn out for the two of them. Jane’s willingness to try anything, Jane’s desire to solve a case almost as strong as hers, being swept up in the pleasure of being along for the ride, of trusting Sherlock's judgement, made her insides ache. The feeling isn't a new one, but Sherlock is still trying her best to convince herself that she deserves it. Warmth fills the room, protecting them against the cold weather slowly building outside. It's a nice moment. A part of her wants to take Jane's sweater from the couch and melt into it, putting her feet up to the heat, the coils slightly burning her skin. 

It was an idiotic plan. Incredibly dangerous to the both of them. Jane knew that, too, but stood her ground, nodding before Sherlock could even ask her if they really should do this. She wanted to do this. This was for her after all. She had to know, and her good old Jane, ready for anything, silently watched her dig out the soot from the envelope.

The ashes from the crime scene disappeared into heater with a puff of smoke. For a long moment everything seems ok. No crackle upon impact, no energy transfer, no projectiles from the soot breaking the engineering, nothing ricocheting back at them. It was almost a let down honestly. Sherlock was mentally crossing off possibilities and creating new paths for them to follow when black clouds started to fill the room. 

Everything seemed ok at first. Maybe it was just soot, she reasoned, or the oil burning off the new coils. Nothing nefarious. Worst case scenario, maybe it would just give them vertigo, cause them to become disoriented enough to where they couldn’t remember how to exit the room, the height out the window, the way bodies aren't supposed to crumble underneath you on impact. Sherlock laughs at this anticlimactic ending until she meets Jane's eyes, because Jane is dying. Sherlock can see dark oil trickling from her shoulder, seeping through her clothing. Sherlock’s favorite satin shirt of Jane's was being ruined by the dark trail falling downward. She could never pick up the color, could never grasp it, but the grey was beautiful underneath. It was present with nearly ever crime scene. The metallic scent, the way it flakes when it dries, retracting into itself. Pain floods Jane’s face and Sherlock feels like her body is being constricted. She tries to get some warning out but her vision is lagging. Despite trying to open her eyes as wide as they could go, Sherlock couldn’t really make anything stay concrete. Her colors were faltering. Solid three dimensional furniture were becoming almost horrifically distorted. Her body felt weak and she was on fire, her chest burning from the inside out. She looked down at her hands to see them fading into grey again. Not again, she thinks. Not after all this time of wanting. It was a horrible feeling that she wasn't able to force away, the realization causing panic to rise into her throat.

_Jane_. The distance from her hands towards Jane is agonizingly slow. Mydriasis. Sherlock has seen this before. Her sallow face staring back at her in the mirror, her cocaine use clear on her face for anyone willing to observe. The dust falling from the ceiling resembles nuclear fallout. Her mouth is dry and it feels like sand has gotten in between her teeth, the grit crunching as muscle rigidity starts to set in. The room is hot, her imagination picturing what it must have felt like to fight in Afghanistan. It was like she’s accessing Jane’s memories or imagining the worst case scenario of any story or emotion she had ever known. It was an idiotic thought but she couldn't shake it away to focus on the present moment. She tries to steady herself on Jane's chair but she feels herself swaying. After a long moment of Jane trying to move, she's slowly making her way towards her. Things are going white. Pain is coming in waves from her left shoulder and she’s not sure if she can do anything to stop it.

A thought. A horrible thought: Jane dying in Afghanistan. Their never meeting. Jane dying far away from their home, from everything she’s known, from everything they would experience together. 221B is a random apartment in a random building on a random street that she would never venture inside. If Sherlock could grasp her hand from the battlefield, she would want to fly her over the houses all over the world, lifting the roofs to point out the little eccentricities of those below before Jane passes. Truth is stranger than fiction, she would say. There are a lot of truths she suddenly wished she had shared with Jane, a lot of cases she wanted to solve with her, a lot of untold mysteries for her to illustrate and share. A lot of marginalized people falling short on answers that those around them couldn’t figure out. But most of all, she watched as Jane faded into white, her vision clouding. The image of Jane eating honey crafted from Sherlock's bees on freshly baked toast. Retirement in a small cottage, the two of them far away from the bustle of the city, small silver rings adorning their annular fingers. But the daydream is slipping from her. By the time she realized she should have ducked from the heat it was too late. The poison is invading her brain attic at an alarming rate, slowing her line of thinking down in the process. It was her worst nightmare and she can't claw her way out.

She’s falling. She feels skin contact and tries to hold onto it. There were so many things she wanted to say. Several potentially sappy ones, oversaturated ones of thanks, of care, of intimacy. She clings to this last solid surface, digging into Jane’s skin, trying to hold onto something good, something real. Fire always makes you realize what’s most important, she thinks hazily, as she recalls how terrified Irene was when she turned towards the mantelpiece. So this was her precious possession, Sherlock realizes: Jane's presence in her life. 

Sherlock falls and lands on something soft, her back suddenly wet. Time rushes back to its normal speed. The fog clears a little as she opens her eyes to the blinding sun. Jane is wheezing besides her and Sherlock turns to throw up whatever is mucking up her insides. The cold grass feels so wonderful against her hot forehead and she’s just so damn thankful that it’s dew rather than Jane’s blood on her skin. 

She hears Jane laughing and pulls herself up to see Jane lying on her back, watching Sherlock with crinkled eyes and the weakest smile. Calloused fingers touch Sherlock’s throat to make sure she’s still breathing, remembering her medical training even with poison clouding her thinking. Her brown eyes are so serious, so frustrated, but so incredibly thankful when she feels Sherlock’s warm skin beneath her. Jane laughs, pushing her body up with her hands to a sitting position, kissing the bandages on Sherlock’s fingers. She pressing Sherlock’s warm palm against her dirty cheek and tries to catch her breath. 

_We’re alive!_ Sherlock wanted to say. Which was a ridiculous thought, because of course they were, but Sherlock has never been so thankful to see Jane's beautiful golden brown skin before. _We’re alive! Gloriously alive!_

A soft hand runs over the Sherlock's neck and down her back, soothing her. She tries to take as many deep breathes as she can, the poison clearing away from the absence of fire. Jane saved her. Her strong arms carried her with muscle memory, no hesitation at all except the desire to save the both of them from danger. The crisp fall air clears her lungs, and Sherlock realizes she can see pumpkins in various shades of orange in front of their doorway behind Jane’s shoulder. Orange. It’s trust. It’s the color of dying leaves, the seeds she sent to _Lone Star_’s captain that would never return home from the sea. The safety jackets of police officers directing traffic in the rain. Pumpkins, sweet potatoes, and carrots from Mr. Hudson’s struggling garden on the lower level patio. New York taxis driving them thoughout the city when they couldn’t reach their location on foot. She can see the yellow leaves crunching beneath her weight, the bright orange leaf one of the bystanders’ child is crumbling in their hand. People were leaning out of windows, looking at them like they were wild. She could hear Mr. Hudson yelling _"What the hell was that!"_ from his living room, thumping on his ceiling with a broom. 

Sherlock laughs again. She pulls Jane closer to her front, just leaning her hot cheek against Jane's temple, taking in the soft scent of cinnamon coming off her clothes. Would they have put themselves in so much danger for a client’s sake? Would have any of the bystanders have saved her? Where would she be if she didn’t have Jane to pull her out of the line of fire? Dead? because damn, that would have been such a way to go.

Sherlock reaches up to cup Jane’s face and took in a sharp breath. “A thousand apologies,” she said, her eyes watering. She blinks the remainder of the poison out of her system, colors slowly returning. It’s exhilarating and overwhelming, but regret makes her feel even worse. Emotional people aren’t always wise, she thinks, trying to dig into the memory to discover where it came from before coming short. She tries to let out a long exhale but just ends up coughing up ash. “I should have never put you in that position. It was an idiotic thing to do, not just for own sake, but for my dear friend’s health as well. I am truly very, very sorry.”

“Having you in my life is a pleasure, Sherlock.” Jane said, her eyes twinkling. Her thumb brushes against a bandage on Sherlock's cheek. “Saving you more so. Just please tell me you’ve solved the case.”

Laugher bubbles up from within her. The joy of being safe clouds her judgement and she pulls Jane in, gripping her collar tight enough to blanch her knuckles, kissing her until her teeth ached. It’s wild and crazy, and she's more thankful for Jane just being Jane than anything else in this moment. Because that’s all she wanted. That’s all Sherlock had ever wanted. Someone who would go through the world with her, someone wonderful, someone brave enough to fight by her side while also not being afraid to bring her down to Earth. Someone she could trust. Someone human that understood the different parts of her-- flaws, brain attic, and all. 

She opens her eyes to see Jane simply smiling warmly at her. Something is building up underneath. She uses the thin sleeve of her sweater to wipe away the tears from her eyes to get a better look, not understanding.

_Red_, Sherlock realizes. That’s the color she was missing. _Radix pedis diabolo_, the Devil’s foot poison from West Africa. The hair color of the college student asking her to look into a job offer that's too good to be true. The red circle on the envelope signalling a mandate for murder of a client long ago. The glowing red eyes of the Baskerville Hound that had almost frightened Henrietta to death. The deep crimson of the theatre seats she takes Jane to when she’s under a particularly bad mood borne out of restlessness. Jane’s lipstick left behind on Sherlock’s coffee mug on the living room table as Jane lost herself in sketching out a new chapter.

Her favorite color since the change. The blush on Jane’s cheeks coming back to life underneath the thin layer of ash. The satisfying way Jane's silk lapels were sliding underneath her fingertips. The deep crimson, like fresh blood, like her mother's freshly baked apple pies, Mr. Hudson’s hair in older photographs around his apartment. The light pink of Jane’s cheap plates she bought somewhere ungodly. Jane’s cinnamon soap in her shopping bag left on top of the kitchen counter when a new client visited them unannounced. The red skin of the apples, the grapes, the other fruits Jane is amazingly skilled on getting Sherlock to eat. Jane's warm socks tucking themselves under Sherlock’s thigh as she sketches, the sound of the pencil against paper breaking through when she's deep within her head trying to make the puzzle pieces fit into something coherent. 

Jane leans over and kisses her, her smile present even though Sherlock's eyes were closed. Oh, Jane. Her dear Jane. _Oh._

The deep Burgundy of Jane’s favorite bra hidden underneath her midnight nightshirt. Her comforter is a deep forest green, and Sherlock is delighted when Jane presses her down into the mattress. The pale yellow light of Jane’s lamp illuminating the room. Sherlock presses a kiss into the harsh pink of Jane’s healing scar on her left shoulder. Warm brown fingers disappear somewhere warm underneath Sherlock’s blue underwear, sparks firing.

Salt and deep brown hair clouds Sherlock’s vision as she falls over the edge, flying.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm tired of adaptions painting Sherlock as a cruel, emotionless person.


End file.
